devil love's angel

your bother marriage

It was around 5 in the morning.

That time when even the sun itself seems to hesitate—should I rise now, or wait a little longer?

But for one man, it didn’t matter whether the sun rose or not. His thoughts were always the same: What difference does it make? I’ll still finish what I set out to do.

That man is our story’s hero—Adithya Varma.

The place he lived in was not like any ordinary neighborhood. It was a world where only the richest of the rich resided—grand, artistic, breathtaking to anyone who laid eyes on it.

But within that world, there was no mansion. No—what stood there could only be described as a palace.

From the entrance gates, it took almost twenty minutes just to reach the main house. Such was its vastness. At night, the entire estate glowed brilliantly under the lights, shining brighter than the stars themselves.

Yet no matter how brightly that palace glittered on the outside, the lives of those within were never bright.

Years ago, Karunakaran and Ambika fell in love and married.

Ambika’s father, Dharmadurai, had raised her with great love after the death of her mother, cherishing her as his only daughter. But when she married Karunakaran against his wishes, without his blessing, he was enraged and shut her out of his home forever.

The son born of this marriage was Adithya Varma. After him came twin boys—Siddharth and Abhimanyu.

Despite her father’s rejection, Ambika and Karunakaran’s married life was peaceful at first. Ambika sold the jewelry she had brought with her to help Karunakaran start a business, which flourished quickly. They were happy. Until the day a woman named Latha stepped into their lives.

Latha was a widow with a young son, Sanjeev. Struggling, she came to Ambika begging for help. Seeing her plight, Ambika felt compassion and gave her work within their household.

But soon, Latha ensnared Karunakaran in her charms. When Ambika discovered the betrayal, furious arguments broke out. The fights grew bitter, ending finally in divorce.

Refusing to live with a man who had deceived her, Ambika walked out, taking her three young sons with her.

Adithya was only eight years old. The twins were just five. With no place to go, Ambika turned to her father, Dharmadurai.

Crying uncontrollably in his arms, she told him everything. The sight of his daughter broken and humiliated filled him with unbearable grief.

But instead of comfort, Ambika’s sister-in-law cruelly taunted her:

“You ran off without a thought, didn’t you? Did you expect that man to take care of you forever? Now that he’s abandoned you, you’ve come running back here, haven’t you? Maybe to demand a share of this property?”

Ambika’s heart shattered at those words.

Furious, Dharmadurai shouted at his daughter-in-law to stop, declaring that if his daughter was not welcome in that house, then neither was he. Taking only what he had set aside for Ambika, he left his ancestral home and moved with her and the children to Chennai.

But Ambika’s sorrow never healed. The betrayal consumed her, and slowly, it killed her.

She passed away when Adithya was twelve.

From that day, his heart hardened. All he had seen since childhood was betrayal, humiliation, and pain. He grew to hate people—especially women—believing they were treacherous, selfish, and capable of destroying lives.

Still, Dharmadurai raised his grandsons with all his strength. Understanding his grandfather’s sacrifices, Adithya worked relentlessly, building an empire with his bare hands.

Now, Adithya Varma was one of the top businessmen in the country. Hospitals, textile mills, design firms, IT companies, colleges—everywhere his name commanded power.

He lived with only one philosophy: I don’t need anyone who once threw me away. I will rule my world alone.

The only person whose words he listened to was his grandfather. To everyone else, he was unapproachable.

Nights gave him no peace—whenever he closed his eyes, the painful memories replayed as nightmares. So he drowned himself in work, his life a machine driven by rage.

That morning, even before his alarm rang, Adithya was awake.

He went straight to his personal gym, working out for two hours. The fire in him showed in the sculpted body he had built—broad shoulders, powerful arms, the physique of a man who commanded fear and respect.

After showering and dressing in his usual sharp attire, he stood on the balcony, sipping black coffee, staring at the world below.

But even the beauty of nature felt empty to him.

The household bustled with activity, though one thing was always constant: no women worked there. Not as cooks, not as maids, not even as gardeners. He trusted only men.

To him, women were dangerous—manipulative, untrustworthy, willing to sell anything for money. His very home was a reflection of his bitterness.

Downstairs, Dharmadurai was sipping tea while reading the morning paper, when the twins, Siddharth and Abhimanyu, came running down the stairs, fighting as usual.

Their noisy bickering made Dharmadurai snap:

“Enough! You’re both grown men now, and still fighting like children? At your age, I was already married with two children!”

The boys groaned dramatically, teasing each other, while their grandfather sighed about his fate.

“You think this is bad? Your elder brother is twenty-eight and still refuses to marry! At least one of you should make me proud.”

The twins, as always, defended Adithya:

“Grandpa, do you know how many women line up for our brother? If he wanted, he could have married long ago. But who can match him? He’s perfect!”

But Dharmadurai only shook his head.

“What use are women lining up when your brother doesn’t even want to look at one? He avoids them like the plague. Even our pooja room—no woman has entered it in years. I pray every day for the girl who will someday bring light into that dark room again. She must be not just a wife for your brother, but a mother to you both, and a true daughter-in-law to this family. Such a girl exists—I know it. I’ll find her.”

Just then, the entire house fell silent. Everyone knew what that meant:

Adithya Varma was coming downstairs.

The man appeared, clad in a crisp white shirt under a long black coat, running a hand through his neatly styled hair as he descended. His presence was commanding, his aura cold, his very steps enough to silence the chaos in the house.

Just then, his phone rang.

“Hello,” he said, his voice deep and powerful—so commanding that even those sitting nearby felt a chill.

But as he listened, his expression darkened. His anger flared.

“You fools! How could you let this happen under our very noses? Useless!”

Slamming the call off, he turned and struck a nearby glass pillar with his bare fist.

The glass shattered instantly, shards embedding into his hand, blood streaming down his arm.

The others froze in fear. They knew that when Adithya was like this, someone, somewhere, was about to pay dearly.

Dharmadurai rushed to him, horrified.

“Have you gone mad, boy? You can be angry, but why harm yourself like this? Look at the blood pouring from your hand! You’re coming to the hospital, right now.”

“It’s nothing, Grandpa. Just a scratch. Why make a fuss?” Adithya muttered coldly.

But Dharmadurai refused to listen. “Enough! Call Dr. Naveen immediately. We’re going to the hospital, and that’s final!”

And so, dragging the furious young man with him, Dharmadurai forced Adithya Varma—the man who ruled empires but bowed to no one—into the very place he least wanted to go:

the hospital.